


Hurray Hurrah

by orphan_account



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 02:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11049471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Please,” he whispered, or tried to- the word caught in his throat, too close to silence for anyone but himself to hear, so he washed it down with a drink of vodka and trusted that Jeff would understand anyway. He couldn’t ask twice. It would take too much editing.





	Hurray Hurrah

Another day, another city, another low-budget excuse for a hotel room. Touring had its good points, of course. Greg knew that it would take a hell of a lot of persuasion to make him give up the time spent with some of his closest friends, the thrill of knowing they were making people laugh, bringing a little bit of relief into the tyrannical reign of Orange 45. Off stage they visited museums, restaurants, did every bizarre thing they could think to pass the time; and of course there were always fans, always brief snippets of conversation over autographs and hugs and countless tweetable, Instagram-able, hastily-posed photographs. The only thing about touring that ever seemed to get old was the travel itself. A tour bus is still a bus, regardless of who else is in it with you. Every bus journey gets old after a couple hours. And a hotel is always a hotel.

In fact, a hotel is almost always the same hotel, regardless of the company who own it or the city they’ve decided to drop the newest clone of their original premises into the centre of. They’re always the same shade of off-white or vague pastel colors, with a nondescript watercolour of a non-existent city scene hanging crooked on one wall and a terminally depressed plant made of Schrödinger’s plastic sitting by the phone. And, unhappily for a man who had a well-established side line in podcasts, the acoustics were always atrocious.

This hotel room, to its credit, had made one small concession to individuality. Jeff Davis was in it.

He was in it because Greg was in it, the both of them holed up in this room killing a couple of hours until it was time to grab dinner and do their final soundchecks before the show. There were a handful of other things that Greg could think of doing to fill that time, but due to the aforementioned side line in podcasts he’d been forced to rule out all of them, except possibly drinking. There were kittens who needed addressed from across the airwaves. Still, Jeff had asked if he could come and listen in, and Greg always did perform better with an audience. He could hardly refuse.

Like seemingly everything else in his life, the set-up for recording was entirely improvised. A microphone balanced precariously on a low table and a scattering of notes he knew damn well he was going to ignore. It wasn’t perfect, but he was yet to find anything that was. Jeff watched him set up with interest.

“And I thought being stuck in the back room of a comic store was bad,” he quipped, arms folded across his chest as though to cover himself. His suit jacket was neatly hung on the back of a chair. For Jeff, this was almost nudity. Actually, reflected Greg absently as he finished plugging in his mic, Jeff was less ashamed about nudity.

“We can’t all be the mayor of our own town, Jeffrey,” he replied, a faint teasing note to his voice. “Some of us mere mortals simply take the art with us wherever we can. I can’t afford to have your high standards.”

“I don’t know which version of Harmontown you’ve been listening to but last time I checked the only standard we have is how much vodka we need. Lots.”

Greg looked up at him and grinned, microphone finally ready to go.

“At last,” he said, “something we agree on.”

He nodded towards the mini fridge, the tiny contents of which he had quickly replaced with their life-sized counterparts as soon as he’d arrived. Jeff laughed quietly and crossed the room towards it. His feet barely disturbed the carpet- years of footsteps following that same path from bed to bar to bathroom had worn down the original soft carpeting until it was more of a faint beige smear on the solid floor. As he knelt in front of the fridge and selected a bottle of vodka, Greg switched on the microphone.

“Hurray hurrah, once again the Smartest Man in the World Proopcast flies into the ether…”

The intro rolled smoothly off his tongue, well-practiced, and while his mouth ran on autopilot Greg allowed himself a few seconds to look over towards Jeff. He was straightening up from where he had been kneeling, his shirt briefly taut across his back before he relaxed and walked back towards the bed where Greg sat. The bottle in his hand glistened with cold water droplets, a contrast to the slightly sickly pre-summer warmth that pervaded the rest of the room.

Instead of returning to his earlier chair, like Greg had expected him to, Jeff sat on the bed beside him. He forced his attention back to the podcast notes in front of him.

Ten minutes or so passed. Greg had never been the best judge of time, and recording his shows always had a way of making him get carried away. He had tangents coming off of his tangents half the time, and this time there was the added distraction of Jeff leaning against his side. Every few minutes they would pass the vodka bottle back and forth, warm skin against cold glass, and occasionally Jeff would let out a soft chuckle at one of his jokes. The audience out in podcast land wouldn’t pick it up- it was barely a sound, more just a brief exhale of breath and a shift in the way he sat- but Greg knew. That was enough.

After about ten minutes, though, Jeff began to get fidgety. Greg was aware of this in a detached sort of way, like the idle thought that you might be a little hungry which sits at the back of your mind while you’re busy in the shower, or the itch in your scalp while getting a haircut. Not relevant for now, but it’s fairly likely that something will happen pretty soon to remind you, make it a more pressing issue. Maybe you’ll get out the shower and realise you can smell bacon from another room. Maybe the hairbrush will come just a fraction of an inch short of scratching the spot you want it to. Maybe Jeff Davis will decide to kick off his shoes, climb up onto the bed behind you, and start kissing your neck.

At the first touch of Jeff’s lips against his skin he jumped, startled by the contact but careful to keep speaking evenly. No sense in wasting time on editing if he could help it. Jeff stopped, twisting round to make eye contact with him. The question was unspoken but clear in his raised eyebrow, and Greg replied with a nod, leaning back into Jeff’s touch. Jeff grinned. The bed shifted beneath them both as he moved again, kneeling carefully behind Greg and leaning down to kiss him a second time. This time Greg was ready for it. His eyes closed briefly and he savoured the contact, his mouth casually listing his latest stream of nicknames for the president while his mind flickered blissfully blank.

Touring definitely had its perks. He’d missed this.

As he continued to piece together something resembling a coherent narrative from the various jokes, anecdotes, and news reports that he’d collected over the last week, Greg was almost impressed at his own self control. Jeff was slowly moving his lips across Greg’s neck and cheek, passing over every spot he knew Greg would respond to, but despite this Greg hadn’t made a sound. With one hand he reached back and ran his fingers through Jeff’s hair, smiling to himself at his immediate reaction of pressing his whole body up behind Greg. He may be fussy as all hell about his hair on screen- and Greg could hardly criticise him without being a hypocrite- but off screen he knew Jeff loved having his hair played with.

Being so close to him meant that Greg could actually feel Jeff’s laughter now. Before, when they were sitting next to each other, he would feel their shoulders press together, accompanied by the faint sound of Jeff muffling a chuckle. The shift in position meant that every time he made Jeff laugh he could feel a soft, warm breath against his skin, the kisses interrupted by smiles brushing against his skin instead. It sent a small shiver down his spine. After a brief eternity of this Greg was developing an almost Pavlovian response; he was playing to a crowd of one, and every joke that landed gave him an instant reward. His neck was warm, not from the heat outside this time but from a faint flush.

Breaking off from the point he was making for a second, Greg muttered “Oh, kittens- where’s the vodka gone?”. It was almost to himself, the kind of thing he’d say practically in lieu of taking a breath, but within a second Jeff had reached round him and held up the vodka bottle in front of his face. He grinned.

“There it is.”

He took the bottle, but instead of moving away again Jeff kept his arms around him. One hand rested on Greg’s chest, the other drifted lower until it settled on Greg’s thigh. As he tried to re-cap the vodka, he felt his breath hitch slightly. Jeff’s sharp grin was cool against his cheek.

“That’s good stuff,” Greg said, certain that Jeff would understand and feeling quietly victorious when he felt a gentle, insistent pressure on his inner thigh. Even through his pants he could feel the warmth of Jeff’s touch, matched by the warmth that ran through him in response which now far outshone the outside world’s attempts to drag summer to them early.

He remembered all too late how sadistic Jeff could be.

The point at which this occurred to him was about fifteen minutes after Jeff’s first touch. Slowly he had begun to test his limits, moving from simply resting his hand on Greg’s thigh to moving it slowly up and down, then combining that once again with gentle kisses and nips at Greg’s neck. Greg was still keeping his voice even, but it was growing harder to remain still. Jeff’s touch was just slightly out of reach from where he wanted it, slightly too gentle to satisfy, and before long Greg was shifting restlessly where he sat. The hand on his chest tightened.

“Shh,” breathed Jeff, so softly even Greg barely heard it. The sound startled him; even though he was keenly aware of precisely how close Jeff was, he hadn’t expected to hear him speak, let alone so close that his lips actually brushed the shell of Greg’s ear. He shivered involuntarily.

As he tried to continue making sense of the scattered notes in front of him- which were working perfectly alongside his scattered thoughts, as he leapt wildly from tangent to anecdote before returning to the punchline he set up ten minutes earlier- Jeff continued to tease him. Now the soft breaths of laughter came not only with Greg’s jokes but also every time his breath caught, every time he tried to press closer, every time he failed to suppress a shiver at what Jeff was doing to him. It was a perfect kind of torture and he bore it as long as he could, but something had to give eventually.

Under the cover of adjusting his notes, rustling the paper a little louder than perhaps strictly necessary so as to cover any noises he wasn’t sure he could contain, Greg reached down and moved Jeff’s hand a little higher until it covered the tented fabric at the front of his pants. It was a light touch, but immediately Greg’s head dropped back on to Jeff’s shoulder and he sighed.

“Please,” he whispered, or tried to- the word caught in his throat, too close to silence for anyone but himself to hear, so he washed it down with a drink of vodka and trusted that Jeff would understand anyway. He couldn’t ask twice. It would take too much editing.

There was a moment of aching want before Jeff reacted, a moment Greg filled with a brief ramble about an encounter he’d had backstage at a show. Then Jeff stroked him once, firmly, through the fabric of his pants, and Greg had to bite his lip to keep his voice under control. Before he could catch his breath the ache returned with a vengeance. Jeff was pulling away, lifting his hands from Greg’s body, parting his lips from Greg’s neck after one final lingering kiss. The sudden void at his back sent a shock through him, his hips lifting in a vain attempt to retain contact. He heard Jeff chuckle.

The earlier memory of Jeff’s sadistic streak wandered through his mind once more. Something was coming. He reached forward and picked up a piece of paper at random- a poem, as it turned out- just for the sake of having something to focus on. He had a feeling it was going to come in useful.

Sure enough, as soon as he began to recite the first few lines, Jeff’s hands returned to his thighs. This time he was kneeling on the floor. Greg broke into an expression that was equal parts shock and delight as he realised what was coming, and Jeff grinned back. Now that Greg got a proper look at him it was clear Jeff wasn’t quite as unaffected as he’d been pretending to be. His cheeks were tinged red, eyes bright and dark, and there was a noticeable tightness to his pants. Greg ran his eyes over him greedily. This was a sight he would never get tired of. Almost before Jeff had finished raising a questioning eyebrow he was nodding and spreading his knees a touch wider, never once faltering from the poem he was reading.

Jeff unzipped his pants with his teeth. Beneath the dizziness which accompanied the answering rush of blood somewhere distinctly south of the brain, Greg dimly registered a degree of awe at the skill, and somewhat more distantly became aware of his voice cracking. His recitation grew more passionate, the lines flowing from him faster as Jeff took him deep in his mouth. The teasing was over now- this was a means to an end. The timer by the microphone read one hour ten. Another shock ran through Greg as he realised what was happening. One hand was buried in Jeff’s hair and gripping tightly, urging him on, while the other braced against the bed. In that moment two things became perfectly clear in his mind; he was going to release what was, essentially, a sex tape, and nobody but he and Jeff would ever know it.

The image of Jeff saving the episode to his phone, listening to it on his own time, teasing himself like he’d teased Greg before, swam vividly behind Greg’s eyes. His hips jerked forward and he wondered if he would be able to finish the poem. The verses were blurred. He was speaking them without thinking, his voice rising in pace and intensity, the only thing in his head a mantra of “Jeff” and “please” that he was determined not to speak out loud. Jeff had unzipped his own pants and had one hand inside, the shadowed outline of movement somehow more erotic than any nudity. He moaned around Greg, sending vibrations rushing through him. They caught, built up to a crescendo, and a split second after the last words of the poem had left his mouth he gasped and tensed up as he came so hard he almost blacked out. His body shook like he was a teenager again, magazine spread open before him like a textbook guide to what men could do to each other. He’d certainly studied it with that much reverence, more intently than any of his actual homework. Even now, decades on, he was occasionally shocked by how much better practical experience was.

His vision cleared a second later and by some miracle he suppressed the tremors in his voice.

“Well, that about wraps it up for today, kittens,” he said, shivering as Jeff sat back a little. The outro was finished in a few seconds, and he hit the off button on his microphone with trembling fingers.

On the floor in front of him, Jeff was thrusting upwards into his own hand almost desperately. He had been covering his mouth and it was easy to see why- as soon as the mic was off he let the hand fall and immediately a string of moans and curses tumbled from his swollen lips.

“That was- God- fucking hot- shit- _fuck_ , Greg, please-” 

He looked wrecked. Greg’s grip had left his hair sticking out in all directions and he was flushed red, panting for breath. Greg moaned softly at the sight.  
“Come on, kitten,” he murmured, finally letting his voice drop low and seductive. Jeff whined, wound so tight that he flinched when Greg reached out to grab his shoulders and pulled him closer to the bed. His movements were erratic, like he was right on the edge. All it took was for Greg to wrap one hand around his length and whisper “Now,” and Jeff was coming over both their hands, crying out and slumping forward in relief.

For a moment they both sat still, Jeff leaning heavily against Greg as they both tried to catch their breath. It couldn’t last long. Soundcheck was in an hour, and neither of them had eaten since breakfast. But for now they had something, somewhere, quiet. Just the two of them.

“I’m impressed,” said Jeff eventually, before immediately dissolving into giggles. It took him several attempts to continue. “I mean, you’re never usually that quiet. Guess you just really do love the sound of your own voice.”

Greg laughed and stroked Jeff’s hair idly, revelling in the way he leaned into the contact.

“You better fucking release this,” Jeff continued after a brief pause. “I want the world to know. No- I want us to know, and nobody else. I want to tell them and for them to have no idea what they’ve just been told.”

“Podcast drops every Monday,” replied Greg. Jeff laughed again and climbed unsteadily to his feet.

“C’mon. Since you brought the drinks and entertainment, I guess dinner’s on me.”

Greg looked down at his hand for the first time in several minutes and wiped it off carefully with a scrap of paper.

“It’s a little on me as well,” he quipped.

“Touché.”

“You’re welcome to come back here later for seconds.”

“I might just take you up on that.”

Laughing, Greg reached up and took the proffered hand.

“Then lead the way.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have no copyright claim over any of this, and no association with the people represented here. This is a work of fiction.


End file.
